


Commit to memory

by LadyJessYU



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x01 towards 8x02, F/M, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18745078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJessYU/pseuds/LadyJessYU
Summary: ‘Ashamed of herself, she tries to justify her dark desires as the product of being around vile men and women for years.’  Or Jon and Sansa have another go at that one-to-one conversation.





	Commit to memory

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I won’t and I caved. First GoT fic. I wrote most of this before the premiere aired but never got round to posting it... then reworked it (fudging a few details) to make it cannon complient-ish to the first episode I guess.

The day Jon returned with the allies, Sansa was waiting up front like any dutiful sister and warden would. She could still feel how her fists clenched as two dragons flew over their heads. Magnificently terrifying beasts, bigger than she had imagined listening to old nan’s tales. Two not three as was the tale of the queen liberator.

The sight of Jon did bring immense relief, but she schooled her features into impassive expression once his silhouette became discernible in the snowy whirlpool. Though Arya was away lurking somewhere, it didn’t matter because the pack was complete now, albeit smaller than it ever was.

She focused on Daenerys Targaryen, her imposed sovereign. She seemed but a few years older than Sansa. Sansa hoped to find some hint of simplicity and crudeness, but she was as regal as they come. She truly was beautiful, a type Westeros has never seen.  Her silver-gold hair falling over her shoulders, body hugged by a long, fur coat – a silver queen, indeed. Her eyes carried a note of affection while she’s watching the reunion between Jon and Bran. And perhaps wistfulness, she was the last of her blood after all. However, when those eyes locked on Sansa, a shadow of something she couldn’t discern appeared and the half-smile was gone. Perhaps it was distrust. It was only fair since Sansa felt the same.

The veiled animosity only intensified as the day progressed. Perhaps in some other world, a lifetime ago, Sansa would have given her a chance. But there was no development that would make the Dragon Queen let the North keep its hard won independence, and there was no chance that Sansa would give it up. Even if Jon was so adamant to give all she asked, not seeing the fury that danced in her eyes every time someone dared to defy her. Sansa knew what welcome the people would give the Queen. No Northerner would accept a foreign ruler. Jon apparently forgot.

A soft knock on the door startles her back from reevaluating every moment since the Queen’s arrival. She knows that knock. It’s Jon. She debates whether to let him in, but gives in quickly. Come in.

It is the first time he’s in the room since he insisted she take it. She didn’t make many changes, only tried to make it reminiscent of her family. Her needlepoint is on the chair, waiting to be finished.

Ghost nuzzles into his hand briefly before returning to his now regular spot – close to the hearth, by Sansa’s desk. He has taken to her quite a lot in his absence.

“Have you spoken with Sam?” she breaks the silence because he clearly does not know how.

“No, I-”

“You really ought to. He’s been looking for you.”

“I wanted to speak with you first.”

“You did already. What is there more to say?” she is flipping through a pile of papers, focused on finding the way to stretch out the supplies, if they even have the need for food after the battle. Maybe they’ll all just become part of the army of the dead, “My letters already informed you of everything that’s happened. But I am tired and still have work to do, as do you.”

“That’s not what I wanted.”

“Arya and Bran should tell you about their faiths themselves. It’s not my place to-”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“No.” she answers a little too fast and a little too harsh.

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

She tears her eyes from the papers. A steely gaze she gives him is enough. His last letter to her, one of the few he bothered to send, his signature ‘Warden of the North’ not ‘King’ is seared into her memory. She felt betrayed and insignificant. Her own words, ‘Winterfell is yours, your Grace’, left the bitter taste in her mouth, “You never answered my question. Did she give you an ultimatum? Or did you bend the knee because you love her?”

“She did… at first. Then she saw the army of the dead and agreed to help without anything in return.”

Somehow, that makes everything worse. “I see.” it wasn’t a surprise, really. Not after she saw how they were.

“Should we all suffer for the crimes of our fathers? You don’t know her, Sansa. She is just and merciful. She freed people. And we need to hope for the future. We need someone to sit on that bloody throne after all this is over. And she is our best chance.”

“She had her dragon burn Randyll and Dickon Tarly for not bending the knee. Just decision, I am sure.”

He didn’t know that. Sansa would have smiled if not for the gruesomeness of the information. She sighs. Littlefinger’s whispers about the young and unmarried Targeryan come to mind again. Even from the grave, he manages to whisper hateful thoughts into her ear… no, he was just trying to turn her against Jon. She knows Jon, he wouldn’t think about that with the threat of the dead loom over them all, “I can’t keep having the same conversation, Jon.”

“I am not here to defend her.”

“And I am not here to attack her. Maybe you are right. Maybe you are not. Time will tell.”

“What should I do?”

“I supported your decision, Jon. I made sure most of our Northern allies did the same. But I have no advice to give you.”

“Of course you do. You always do.” he attempts a smile.

It infuriates her how close she comes to caving, “Should I tell you my opinion again and again watch you run off and do whatever you like?”

In couple of swift steps, he circles the table to face her directly. She doesn’t leave her chair, “You think I pledged my allegiance on a whim? It was you who told me I had to be smarter than father and Robb. You don’t know what it was like-“

“You don’t know what it was like here for me – hundreds of voices screaming into my head all day, every day. I had to prepare for every possible outcome. She could have said no and sent you on your way. Her dragons could have incinerated you the moment you stepped foot on land. She could have killed you any other time. You could have died on that stupid quest. Cersei could have… I could have lost you.” she promised herself she would not show weakness again. She had shed her last tear at Littlefinger’s trial. It had been the last tear for her dead mother and father, for her brothers and for that naïve, stupid little girl she had once been. In part, and she would never ever admit it to anyone, it had been for Littlefinger as well. He did love her in his own sick way and most importantly he did teach her well to play the game, “Littlefinger wanted to turn people against you. He was sure I wanted the North for myself. Arya thought that as well. I was making sure the North remains ours and you gave it away without any regard for me. Winterfell is our home. It belongs to us, not the Boltons or Lannisters or a Targeryan.”

He doesn’t respond. She can see her reflection, in his eyes, darker than usual, almost unrecognizable. Like anger, but not quite.

It all makes her feel strange and she doesn’t know how to act. She fears that feeling which surfaces from time to time. She fears those moments when she doesn’t see him as a brother. Once, her true mother’s daughter, she saw him as a bastard, a single stain on Eddard Stark’s honor, a boy stealing her father’s affection. Again at moments, she sees him not as a brother. Now, he is someone who she wants to be closer. The only man whose touch she can imagine not shying away from. Ashamed of herself, she tries to justify her dark desires as the product of being around vile men and women for years.  Somewhere along the way, her dream of maiden and her brave knight has turned into its own abomination, “Say something.” she challenges, almost accusatorily.

He leans close enough for her to feel warmth of his body. She shuts her eyes, praying to Gods to give her strength.

“I am sorry I’ve disappointed you.”

Sansa jerks away; the scraping sound of the heavy chair is piercing, “It’s fine. You didn’t. Let’s just focus on more important things.”

The reaction she hoped for is not what she gets.  Jon doesn’t nod and broods in silence like he sometimes would in those little private moments of theirs.  Instead, he doesn’t back off.  His tone is too calm for their usual arguments, “It’s important you understand.  If we survive this war-“

“You will need to solidify the alliance. And marriage is the best way for that.”

“Why would you say that?”

Rumors travel faster than ravens. She might not have been sure before, but his face gives the clear answer no matter how much he tries to avoid saying it, “Don’t insult my intelligence, Jon. I am neither blind nor stupid.”

“I won’t ever leave.”

“You will.”

“And, since Bran has denounced his birth right, you will be Queen in the North.” he plays along.

“Warden.” she reminds him, “It doesn’t matter, if you leave.”

Instead of a retort, he swoops her into his arms and it all goes to Hell, “You don’t understand anything, do you?”

She breathes out and relaxes into the hug. That is where she first felt safe in years. It still feels like the safest place.

He kisses her forehead, but the lips do not stay there. They trail along her cheek… one kiss, two, three and then it stops, lingering at the corner of her lips.

“Jon…” she pleads but she doesn’t know for what. She holds his wrists, she can move his hands wherever she wants. She leads them down from her long neck, over her body and onto her hips. They rest there long enough for her to commit the sensation to memory. But that is all. She can’t. She shouldn’t have. She steps away. Her gaze is fixed on the flames.

Jon leaves without a word.


End file.
